


Contingency Plans

by seekingmoonscapes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: And amused, Clint refuses to be helpful in this endeavour, Coulson attempts to compartmentalise, Even though he sometimes doesn't want to, Fury knows everything, Implied Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov - Freeform, M/M, Natasha is sassy, Plot What Plot, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingmoonscapes/pseuds/seekingmoonscapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to circumstances facilitated by the Goddess of Slash, Phil and Clint are forced to get hot and heavy in an elevator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contingency Plans

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT: Phil actually snorts. “We’ve had sex in an elevator to maintain cover, and this is where you draw the line?”  
> DISCLAIMER:  
> The line is not mine, it is from this wonderful fic here http://archiveofourown.org/works/383922.  
> The prompt is also not mine; I have merely stolen it for my own perverted purposes.

Phil was a traditionalist and it’s not that he didn’t like technology, he just didn’t trust it. What he did trust were agents with intuition, guts and an ability to think on their feet. He needed to know that if the comms went down, or the guns jammed or the get-away vehicle spontaneously combusted (which, granted, had only happened once) then his agent would have an emergency plan in place. It was the reason he’d agreed to take on Barton in the first place. The archer may have had a perfect track record of driving his previous handlers up the walls, but he made contingency plans.

When a handle had turned unexpectedly during their first mission together, Barton’s first reaction hadn’t been to stare at it in horror. Instead, he had shoved Phil into the nearest available wall space and tried to crawl inside him via his mouth. After that performance, it had been relatively easy to convince their intruder that they were just a couple of misguided revellers from the office party blaring away downstairs.

He’d agreed to take the Black Widow more reluctantly. She was unpredictable, ambiguous and unbelievably dangerous. But Barton had dragged her home like she was a lost kitten he’d found by the roadside and had steadfastly refused to ask if they could keep her. Instead, he’d camped out in the air ducts above the secure infirmary ward she was being held in and, as far as Phil could tell, had sulked. Phil had lasted six days before he’d marched into Fury’s office to plead her case. It turned out to be one of the best decisions he’d ever made.

(Although, it had greatly increased the number of edits of _tactical snog_ to _evasive manoeuvres_ he’d been forced to make to Barton’s mission reports).

Phil could hear Romanov now, scuffling on top of the elevator and swearing creatively in Russian at the bomb that had been installed there. She sounded impressed, which Phil had come to recognise was never a good sign.

An electronic chime signalled the elevator doors sliding opened for the fourth time and Phil sighed. He slipped one hand into Barton’s hair and curved another around his waist as their mouths slotted together. There were a few seconds of stunned silence before the doors closed again.

“Surely there must be better ways of dissuading people from using an elevator.” Phil commented mildly, his fingers tensing as Barton rolled their hips together.

“Name one as quick.” Barton replied between pressing warm, open kisses along his jaw.

“An out-of-order sign.”

“Carry one of those on you, do you?”

Phil conceded his point with a small shrug, “Someone will report us eventually.”

“And then the staff will just check the elevator camera, see Stark’s little hackbot doing its job and assume that we’ve made it to our floor. Besides, we might die Coulson; might as well go out with a bang.” Barton snickered and Phil resisted the unprofessional urge to roll his eyes.

Romanov snorted, the sound muffled through the ceiling, “That is one of the worst chat-up lines I’ve heard in a long time.”

“You’ve clearly not been listening to yourself,” Barton retorted, not missing a beat as he shoved Phil’s jacket down his arms. It joined his tie on the floor.

“I don’t need chat-up lines.” The response is lascivious and Phil has no problem picturing the smirk she would be wearing.

Barton laughed, “Is that your excuse for Argentina?”

“My Spanish was a little rusty, so sue me. It worked out.”

“The mark thought you were there to do a prostate exam.” Barton crowed gleefully. It was one of his favourite stories and Phil had no desire to hear it again, or to hear it devolve into elaborate Russian insults, which was the outcome more often than not. (Although, the insults were better than the one time that the two of them ended up in medical with cracked ribs and bloody noses.) Barton chuckled against his mouth as Phil dragged him back into a kiss.

“If you were feeling neglected, you could have just said,” Barton murmured when they broke apart.

“It’s difficult to look particularly amorous when there’s an argument going on above my head.” Phil replied dryly as Barton nipped at his earlobe. Phil turned his head to the side to give him better access and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror next to them. He rapidly redirected his gaze to the ceiling.

The elevator lurched, trying to react to someone calling it, but the temporary brakes Romanov had installed held it steady. The doors slid open again, as if in sullen retaliation, and by the time they had slid back into place, Barton’s t-shirt was halfway up his back, Phil’s belt had joined the pile of clothing pooling around their feet, and one of Phil’s hands had wormed down the back of Barton’s pants.

“Well, Coulson, who would’ve guessed you’re an ass man?” Barton grinned. Phil rolled his eyes, already working his hand out from under Barton’s belt. He’d managed to cut off the circulation to his fingers and they tingled as he finally pulled them free. Barton pouted, “I kinda liked that there.”

“Take your belt off then,” Phil replied, even though he was pretty sure he’d meant to ignore the comment completely. Fighting to maintain his professionalism, he turned his attention back to the ceiling, “Romanov, what’s happening?”

A particularly drawn-out string of Slavic profanity answered him and there was a slight twinge to the end that made Phil dramatically lower their odds of survival.

The same thought must have crossed Barton’s mind too, because when he looked back, Barton shot him a grin just this side of too sharp and unbuckled his belt as he’d been ordered. Then he stripped off his shirt for good measure.

Phil swallowed dryly.

“Better?” Barton asked, but the levity in his voice was a little forced. He crowded Phil against the elevator wall and turned away to study the mirror beside them intently.

“Look at that.” He murmured into his ear, too low for anyone but Phil to hear. “That’d fuel a few fantasies for a while, hmm?” Barton chuckled and rubbed the rough sandpaper of his emerging stubble against Phil skin.

Phil stared determinedly at the ceiling and thought about risk assessment forms, bomb defusal debriefs, public management reports and how exactly he was going to explain this to Fury. “I know it might be difficult to grasp, Barton, but not everyone fantasises about you.”

 Barton laughed and snapped his hips forward, seriously hindering Phil’s attempts to compartmentalise, “I was talking about _you_.”

Phil’s eyes flicked down in surprise, his eyes connecting with his reflection in the mirror for half a second (e _yes wide, cheeks flushed and his clothes rumpled beyond repair)_ before his gaze inevitably slid sideways. Later, he would try to forget the glimpse of amused grey eyes, powerful biceps and jeans slung dangerously low on slim hips, but the image will be indelibly inked into his memory.

“Romanov?” He prompted, desperate to step back from where things had suddenly gotten too close. Too personal.

“I’ve got it, sir.” She responded, calmly, and Phil exhaled quietly in relief. He honestly couldn’t tell if it was relief for his continued survival or for the impending end to this mission or just both.

“How are we doing on time?” Barton asked.

“Eleven minutes.”

Barton smirked slowly, rocking his hips again as he slipped his hands under Phil’s thighs. Several alarm bells went off in Phil’s head at once.

“Don’t even think about it, Barton.” Phil warned him but his traitorous hands were already sliding over Barton’s broad shoulders for better purchase.

“Trust me, sir, you’ll like this angle better,” Barton replied, still grinning. And then he heaved, grunting with effort as he settled Phil’s legs over his hips. Phil curled around him instinctively, his legs locking around Barton’s waist and hands gripping his shoulders tightly as an unpleasant wave of disconcertion crashed over him.

Barton pressed him hard against the wall, his mouth curved into a delicious smirk that Phil wanted to tlean forward and taste. Fortunately for him, the elevator doors opened at just that precise moment. .

Their sixth visitor yelped in surprise and Phil idly wondered how much paperwork he’d have to fill out for accidently giving an old lady a heart attack. Then Barton ground his hips up and his mind stuttered to a stop for a few seconds.

He winced as his head banged against the elevator wall.

Romanov growled something about the incompatibility of loud noises and delicate procedures and threatened to personally kill them both should they survive. Phil opened his mouth to reply but was distracted by Barton taking advantage of the expanse of neck that was suddenly in front of him. There was a quip there about opportunities and resources if Phil could concentrate long enough to form it.

Barton’s muscles strained against him, pushing him harder into the wall as his mouth made patterns that Phil was sure would bruise a livid purple. He tugged Barton away from his neck before he could do any more damage and he licked back into Barton’s mouth instead, rocking down just to hear Barton groan. The phrase ‘above and beyond the call of duty’ came somewhat dryly to the fore of his mind, but a slow, sweet pressure was beginning to curl in his lower abdomen and his fingers dug into the back of Barton’s neck as his focus narrowed to the roll of Barton’s hips.

Which, of course, is when they started sliding down the wall.

Barton tried to regain his grip, pushing Phil harder into the wall and evening out his weight along his forearms, but Phil could feel his muscles trembling with the effort.

“Barton, put me down.” He said quietly, his breath hitching as Barton efforts to stabilise them pushed them together.

“Nah, I’m good,” Barton huffed against his skin, stubborn as ever.

“Barton.” Phil put the full weight of a command behind the word and Barton finally lowered Phil with a care that was impressive considering the way his arms were shaking.

“I could have kept going, you know.” He groused, his hands already starting to trail over Phil’s backside, squeezing and kneading gently.

“I’d rather avoid the chance of a broken coccyx.”  Phil replied, a little more breathlessly than he would have liked.

Barton opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Romanov suddenly dropping from the ceiling and pulling the hatch closed behind her in one fluid motion. “I’m done,” she declared, smirking at them knowingly.

Phil may have been embarrassed had his long stint at SHIELD (and, particularly, as Barton and Romanov’s handler) not rid him of the capacity.

Barton turned around to stare at her, “Seriously? You couldn’t have waited another five minutes?”

“I’m surprised you lasted this long.” She replied coolly. Phil couldn’t see his face, but he knew Barton would be glaring at her. He sighed and dropped his arms from their somewhat emasculating position around Barton’s neck, rubbing the circulation back into his tingling palms.

“How about you wait over there and we’ll see how long I can draw this out?” Barton drawled, still glowering over his shoulder.

“I think I’ve had enough public humiliation for one day.” Phil interjected, which earned him a pout. He stared back at Barton impassively as Romanov slipped the defused bomb into a waiting satchel.

“That cuts me deep, Coulson. You saying you’re ashamed of me?”

Phil ignored him, turning to Romanov to ask if she had disengaged the brakes and bending down to reclaim the clothes Barton had so thoughtfully scattered over the floor.

“Yes, sir.” She replied before walking over to the camera in the corner and asking Barton to give her a lift up so she could grab the small bug Stark had provided them with. Barton sighed but obliged and Phil deliberately ignored the sight of Barton’s back rippling with the effort. Romanov raised an eyebrow at Barton’s soft grunt and shaking limbs. “You really did go all-out, huh?” she smirked.

“Shut up.”

“You really need to get over your wall kink.” She added and Phil deliberately ignored that too. Not so much for the fraternisation it implied, but for the fear of what the imagery would do to the last of his sanity.

“I like my wall kink.” Barton replied, dropping Romanov to the floor with a lot less care than he’d given Phil. She landed gracefully all the same. The two of them seemed to share a silent conversation, the kind that had people at SHEILD convinced that they could read each other’s minds, whilst Phil tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles on his jacket. Eventually, Romanov smirked and stalked over to push the button for the ground floor, which probably meant that she’d come out on top of their psychic dispute.

Phil quietly stepped over to join her, readjusting his collar in an attempt to hide some of the mess Barton had no doubt made of his neck. From the sound of Barton’s snickers and Romanov’s snort, he gathered he was unsuccessful. He gave up and pulled his phone from his pocket instead, punching in Fury’s number for the day. Fury answered on the second ring, his voice angry and severe as he informed them that the bomb had been a distraction and that they were needed on the other side of town five minutes ago. Phil resisted the urge to sigh as his hopes for an early night were viciously stamped out of existence.

***

Phil finally stumbled into the bedroom adjoining his office at thirty-seven hours later, his body quivering from a dose of caffeine large enough to fuel a graduate student for an entire year. Barton was already there, sprawled across the bed with a relaxed pose that belied the alertness of his eyes.

“What are you doing here, Barton?” He asked, too exhausted to sound anything but resigned.

“My bed was too far away.”

Phil huffed in a way that could be interpreted as a laugh or a sign of exasperation; even he wasn’t entirely sure which it actually was. “Okay,” was the only response he could muster, and he could kind of see Barton’s point, because Barton’s quarters were about three levels down and a five minute walk north from Phil’s office. “I’m going to bed, now.” He added, as he toed off his shoes and huffed/laughed/sighed again when Barton just scooted over to give Phil enough space to collapse onto.

Phil told himself that he only let Barton get away with it because he was too tired to argue. He slipped off his tie, belt and jacket and let them fall to the floor, ignoring the cupboard and hangers only metres away, before finally sinking onto his mattress. It was a tight squeeze; two grown men had no business sharing a single bed, but Barton slotted their legs together and curled an arm beneath his head, whilst Phil shuffled down and wrapped his arms around himself, and that worked well enough. Phil’s eyes slid shut as a duvet was pulled over him, smelling like washing powder, musk and Barton, and he was asleep half a second later.

***

When he woke up Barton was gone and his bed was ringing. Phil groaned and fished around under the covers until he found the cool, sleek phone. He didn’t even bother to check the caller ID.

“Sir?”

“I need your debrief, Coulson. My office, ten minutes.”

“On my way.” Phil replied, already heaving his reluctant body out of bed. The line went dead and Phil dropped the phone back onto the bed as he changed into a new charcoal suit fast enough to bring a theatre stagehand to tears. He was almost out of the door before he noticed the brown paper bag sitting innocuously on his desk, Barton’s familiar chicken scratch scrawled across the front.

_Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. CB_

There were three sugar doughnuts from the cafeteria inside and the smell of them suddenly sent his stomach into overdrive. A quick look at his watch told him he hadn’t eaten anything for over twelve hours and he only had four minutes before he had to be in Fury’s office. He ate the doughnuts on the way, ignoring the stares of junior agents who had clearly been entertaining the possibility of Phil being a robot. (A rumour which Phil knew had been started by Barton, even if he was yet to uncover conclusive proof).

“Coulson.” Fury said as Phil stepped into his office. He was sat behind his desk, just as he’d been when Coulson had left him eight hours ago, his hands clasped in front of him casually. Only the slightest tremor in his thumb betrayed the exhaustion Coulson knew lay behind the steely gaze.

“Sir.”

“Do I want to know how you employed _evasive manoeuvres_ in an elevator?” He held up a report that had most certainly not been written by Phil. Apparently, Barton had picked up on that little trick.

“Probably not, sir.”

“No, I didn’t think so.” Fury placed the paper to the side, top left corner that Phil had come to recognise as the ‘File and Forget’ corner. Since Barton and Romanoff’s addition to SHIELD it had come into much more frequent use. “Report , Coulson.”

Phil returned to his office thirty minutes later.  Barton was waiting for him, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms folded and his hair still damp from the shower.

“So are we going to talk about it?” Barton asked casually as they stepped into Phil’s office.

“There’s nothing to discuss.” Phil replied. It was a lie. There had been something to discuss since the first time Barton had crowded him against a wall and Phil had clutched at his hips without a second of hesitation. But they’d done pretty well with avoiding the issue so far and Phil saw no reason to break that streak now.

Barton shrugged, “If you say so. _Sir_.”

The _sir_ made Phil pause. It was tetchy, impatient; the way Barton usually sounded when Phil was holding off action on a mission. “Barton, there is nothing to discuss.” He repeated, but if he was being honest, it was more for his own benefit than Barton’s.

“I didn’t really feel like talking anyway.” Barton stared at him meaningfully and if Phil had less training in impassivity, his breathing would have hitched at the implication.

“Barton…” The word was heavy with warning, but Barton ignored it as he stepped across the room, his feet habitually silent against the dull, beige carpet. He stopped barely a foot away, his eyes dark and intense, and Phil had to clench his hands into fists to resist the urge to grab and take and take and take what Barton was offering. “This _cannot_ happen.” He finally exhaled.

“Why, because some rulebook says so? Since when were you the kind of man to play by the rules?” Barton asked, his head tilting to the side and his eyes narrowing, “You only play the rules card when it suits you, Coulson, so why are you playing it now?”

“Because I am your handler,” Phil glared back, “and you are one of the best agents I have ever worked with. Forgive me for not wanting to jeopardise that relationship for the sake of scratching an itch.”

“Scratching an itch?” Barton repeated, “Is that what I am to you? An itch?”  his eyes flashing angrily. He closed the final foot between them, caging Phil against the desk as he rested his hands on either side of him, and Phil couldn’t decide if it was terrifying or just breath-taking.

“So I get under your skin; I drive you crazy?” The question was growled darkly into his ear and Phil dug his fingernails into his palms almost hard enough to draw blood to repress the shiver that wanted to run down his spine. _You’ve been driving me crazy since the first day I met you_ Phil wanted to say, but he clamped down on it, breath through his nose and staring at the dull grey wall on the opposite side of the room. “Give me an answer, Coulson.”

“Yes.” It slipped out quietly, yet in the silence of the room it seemed sharper, and brighter, and so blindingly obvious.

Barton seemed to sag with the admission, his whole body pressing forwards so that Phil could feel the heat of him seeping through his suit and his breath ruffling the hair just above Phil’s ear.

Neither of them spoke for a moment that seemed to stretch out longer and longer as it wrapped around them, hot and stifling, until Phil couldn’t stand the stillness anymore. He uncurled his fists, pain bursting through his stiff fingers, and clenched them again before he could do something stupid, like pull Barton closer.

Slowly, so slowly, Barton exhaled and his head bowed as if in prayer. It was a pose etched in Phil’s mind from every mission they’d been on that had gone wrong. This was Barton waiting for pain, waiting for torture, waiting for death. There was no training in the world that could stop Phil’s breathing from hitching at that revelation.

“Is that all I am?”

Barton had taken almost a year to trust him. It had been a slow year, with wild, violent missions that made Phil’s chest still go tight when he remembered them. Barton had made himself deliberately unpredictable; pushing the boundaries of his orders, revealing his plans only minutes before acting on them and disappearing for hours on end for surveillance. He never slept in company and only ate what he bought himself. He refused every offer of a partner.

But Phil had made a promise that year, right from the start, to never lie to him. He knew Barton hadn’t believed he’d keep it, Barton hadn’t believed a lot of things back then. But keeping that promise had been the reason that, 12 months after Phil became his handler, on their sixth mission, Barton had lay down on the bed in their motel room and slept. It had been the reason that, 10 months into working together, on the way to their fifth mission, Barton casually asked Phil to grab him a sandwich when he went to pay for gas. It had been the reason that, after 7 months, in the middle of their fourth mission, Barton began to tell him when he was about to veer from the plan.

Phil had never wanted to break that promise more than he did right then.

So he said nothing at all, and Barton heard every word.

He pressed his nose against Phil’s ear and exhaled slowly like he was on the cusp of breaking, “You’re not just an itch for me either, Phil.”

The confession sank into his skin just as a tired, sad resignation sank into his bones. Maybe they’d gone too far anyway, but Phil knew with absolute certainty that they could never go back from this moment. This soft, terrible, delicate moment that didn’t suit them at all.

“…Clint,” the syllable pushed its way out of his mouth and hung between them for a few seconds before there were sudden hot, insistent kisses pressing along his jaw.

“Finally.” It was exhaled so quietly that if they hadn’t been so close, Phil wouldn’t have heard the word at all. Clint laughed at himself softly “You have no idea how long I’ve… Jesus Christ, _Barton,_ even in the elevator when I was… Fuck, Phil, I’ve wanted you to say it the minute you marched into Fury’s office and demanded Natasha as your agent. No-one had ever done something like that for me, had ever trusted me just like that, no questions asked. It, fuck, I wanted to give you _everything_.” Clint babbled, rushing everything out as if this was the last time they’d ever be able to talk and their time was running out.

“It’s my job to trust you,” Phil deflected automatically, but it was weak and distant and made Clint laugh.

“That what you’re taking from that? I practically tell you I’m in love with you and you want to argue your job description?”

Phil kissed him then, because a hot, grasping mess of mouths he could deal with, but words were terrifying. Clint didn’t seem to mind, pressing up against him greedily, shoving him into the edge of the desk painfully. There would be a bruise there tomorrow.

“Fuck, Phil,” Clint gasped, yanking back to stare at him, wide and unabashed.

“Yes,” Phil agreed unthinkingly, pulling that mouth back to his as Clint groaned low in his throat. The kiss was rough and graceless.

Clint pulled him away from the desk and across the room to shove him up against the door to Phil’s cramped cabin bedroom.  The impact was as loud as a gunshot but Phil was too busy shoving his hands beneath Clint’s clothes to care. His fingers found every scar with unerring accuracy, as if he’d etched them onto his mind without even knowing it, and by the time he’d finished, Clint’s shirt had disappeared and Clint was quivering with anticipation.

“Bed,” Clint gasped out, already starting to push Phil towards the door. Phil acquiesced eagerly, groping the door open and dragging Clint into the room with him. The door slammed shut behind them and the lock slid smoothly into place. It didn’t open again until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to aftersoon for all the help that was given in the making of this fic :)


End file.
